


Brighter

by PoisonKisses



Series: Eternal Rose [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Succubus, vampire, vampire Ivy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: She watches her, but she can't have her.Can she?
Relationships: Poison Ivy/Harley Quinn
Series: Eternal Rose [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134113
Comments: 14
Kudos: 111





	Brighter

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little story for Halloween. #Ivytober !
> 
> After several requests, this is getting majorly expanded into a full series. Edited this first piece for minor continuity.

I see her again.

She takes the late night train every evening--the one A.M. train that circles central Gotham. That late the platform is deserted, the prehistoric fixtures creating little islands of light in a sea of decaying darkness. I can’t imagine what it must be like to make that trip by herself, every night. Once upon a time I’d have been afraid.

I’m not afraid now. I’m the scary thing in the dark.

She wears a long coat no matter how hot it is and carries a huge purse worn across her little body with her hand inside it. I sometimes wonder what she has in there--maybe a gun, or pepper spray, or a taser? I hope she has something. Gotham is never safe, but late at night, walking alone, being cute and blonde and petite? That seems very...unsafe.

She IS cute, too--Big blue eyes, bouncy blonde pony tails, sometimes dyed red and blue or red and black. She’s short, making me feel like an amazon. I’m close to a foot taller, I’d wager, but she moves well. There’s a lightness to her step that implies she’s athletic. Dancer maybe. With that long coat and this late night train, I imagine who she must be. Stripper, I’ve decided, but who knows, she might just be a waitress or something. If she’s a late night office worker, a cubicle bound corporate drone, I’d have guessed she’d wear more expensive sartorial choices--her coat is a little shabby and threadbare, her shapeless purse would be Gucci rather than Wal-Mart. 

I really don’t have the data to support that, however. _Remember, Pamela, we’re not here to guess, we’re here to prove,_ Alec used to say to me. He’s right, I know better than to depend on conjecture. Without making excuses, it’s just a matter of me riding this late night train while hungry. 

I’m always hungry now.

She wears sneakers, pink converses, and they’ve been written and drawn on with sharpies, like this girl is perpetually fourteen and writing boys’ names on her shoes in homeroom. Hearts, diamonds, kitty faces, her loopy handwriting and doodles are as cute as she is. I tuck back into my hoodie, hiding in the back of the car, well away from her, and try not to stare.

I wish I could talk to her. I’d love to know her name, and more than once I’ve considered following her when she gets off near the Goode Street exit. I can only guess she must live over in that section of the city, which is circumstantial proof of my assertion she must not be an office girl. That part of Gotham isn’t as bad as the Narrows, but it’s not exactly the upper west side either.

She probably thinks I’m creepy. I make sure she can’t really see anything of me other than a vaguely goth girl in a baggy hoodie curled up in the back corner, and I know she probably thinks I’m on something, the way I stay hidden. I wouldn’t be the first meth head or bliss fiend sleeping it off on a train--she thinks I’m a junkie, I convince myself, and honestly, she’s right, it's just my drug of choice isn’t meth or bliss. It’s something worse.

And that’s why I can't talk to her. Even when I’m not so hungry, when I’ve fed on some rich asshole, I wouldn’t talk to her. Just knowing me is a good way to have your life ruined. I don’t want that for her.

I wonder what her name is.

Sometimes I call myself Pam in my head still, even though Pamela Isley died a couple of centuries ago when Jason...Jason. Goddess, fuck Jason. I have to beat down a fresh wave of hate at the thought of my erstwhile creator. Someday, I swear to myself, someday I’m going to hunt Jason down and pay him back for this. He took everything from me, and I gave it to him, because I thought I was in love with him. That’s the real curse of...of this. I could talk to her, and then she’d think she was in love with me, and I can’t bear it, I can’t bear to do it to someone else, what Jason did to me.

No, Pam is gone, and I go by Ivy now. It would be so easy to walk up, ask her what time it is, like I’m thinking about train schedules and not how nice she smells--like spring rain on new grass, like the strawberry shampoo she used that morning, like her two dogs, like the coppery heaven flowing in her veins. Introduce myself. Go home with her.

I wonder what her lips taste like.

I know she’s not a stripper. She smells too clean, and not like cheap beer and stale cigarettes and desperate men. She’s not a hooker or an escort either. I could smell the sex on her. Whatever she does, she’s exhausted on these train rides, I can see it in her dull eyes. 

I think I’m in love with her.

I’ve heard her talk on the phone in a high pitched, nasally New York accent so I can only assume she’s not native to Gotham. I wonder what dragged her here. Possibly her male partner. Yes, I’ve smelled him all over her. I’ve heard her talking to him on the phone, assuring him she’d be home soon, calling him ‘Puddin.’ I’ve listened to the fear in her voice as she spoke, heard her pulse quicken when getting a call from him, and not with excitement or love. I try not to grind my teeth at the thought of someone making her afraid.

She has her headphones in now, and she’s subtly bobbing her head to music only she can hear. I want to run my fingers through her hair. Fuck, I want to run my finger down her spine. I want to run my tongue up her middle.

In my living days, I had no idea I was even attracted to women. That just wasn't done--not by God-fearing young French girls. Before Jason. I’d always sort of assumed I would meet a nice boy, my own knight in shining armor, have a passionate love affair, get married and bear him sons. I’d have it all. I came from a decent family, I had a respectable dowry. I was certainly pretty enough, even then, before I became...this. I was educated, smart, witty, charming--looking back it’s no wonder Jason gravitated toward me. He wanted my innocence as well as my blood, and he took both from me, turning me into this thing, causing me to ripen and rot right on the vine. And now, well, I guess there are no shining knights in Gotham, only dark ones, and I guess I'm not a virtuous maiden faire--I’m blood and sex and death all rolled into a single thing, not a person anymore. I’m Poison. 

At any rate, I like girls now. I guess I like both, in the sense that both...taste...so delicious, but girls are different. Softer. They smell better. They feel good when I wrap my arms around them..good? They feel incredible. Abso-fucking-lutely amazing! They make this little sigh when I first slip a finger inside or when I sink my fangs in, a breathy little moan that drives me wild. Feeling a girl writhe in my embrace, orgasming at my touch, sucking the sweet honey off my fingers clean, licking their rich blood off my lips. Feeling their warmth, their life, listening to their heartbeats, smelling their arousal. Turns out proper, prudish Pam was actually a raging sapphic seductress all along.

I wonder what sound she would make if I pushed her against the wall, claimed her pink little mouth with mine, pulled her coat back, slipped my fingers into her panties, slipped them into HER, felt that breathy little moan directly on my tongue. I want to know, and I could, as easily as pulling my hood down and going over to her. No one can resist me when I want them. She’d be mine, and I could fuck her and feed on her and keep her forever, one more flower for my garden.

For a few long minutes I torture myself, thinking about it, tempting myself with it. It’s a masochistic little game I play with myself sometimes.

I’m wet.

It’s almost embarrassing how wet. My fangs are out, and I’m squirming in place, picturing her, head thrown back in ecstasy, calling my name in her cute little squeaky voice, made husky with desire. “Ivy, oh gawd, Ivy!”

I fight back tears. I could do that, but I’d be ruining her life. Ruining her, turning her into a slave to pleasure, an addicted junkie who would do anything for me, fooled by a mystical trick into thinking she was in love with the red haired stranger from the train, seduced and enslaved by a heartless succubus passing on the cycle of, let’s face it, rape.

I can’t. I won’t.

It’s her stop, and she stands, putting her headphones away. She never has them in when walking alone--smart. She doesn’t even glance my direction, but instead heaves a sigh, slings her purse, and gets off the train.

I perk up, because I see the guys before she does. Three white guys, college types if I had to guess. Tall, lean, probably drunk, the leader whistles at her with a “Damn, girl!” She puts her head down, doesn’t make eye contact, and pushes past them.

I feel rage. It’s sweet and pure, my protective nature awakening, and as the guys laugh and get on the train, I nurture it, feeding and watering it, like a newly sprouted seedling, giving it a little sunlight and letting it grow.

_I’ve given you sunshine, I’ve given you rain, looks like you’re not happy, unless I open a vein!_

I follow the three off the train when they disembark several stops down. The other two keep calling the guy who spoke ‘Eddie.’ 

Eddie, as it turns out, is a screamer.

No one makes her unhappy.

I can’t have her, I can’t drag her into my darkness, but I can do a little something to make her life a little brighter.


End file.
